Then she heard a sound of music—softest, sweetest music—floating through the room, and woke to reason with a terrible shudder to find that she was singing the old, sweet song:
"I would the grave would hide me,
For there alone is peace."
"I have been mad," she said to herself; "those words drove me mad, 'Lance's little child.'"
She went to her room and bathed her head in ice-cold water. The pain grew less, but not the burning heat.
The idea became fixed in her mind that she must go back to the old mill-stream; she did not know why, she never asked herself why; that was her haven of rest, by the sound of rushing waters. Within sight of the mill-wheel, and the trees, and the water lilies, all would be well, the cloud would pass from her mind, the fire from her brain, the sword from her heart.
She had two letters to write, one to the manager with whom her engagement expired in two nights, telling him she was ill and had gone away for her health, and that he would not probably hear of her for some time; and another to Lord Chandos. It was simple and sad:
"Good-bye. I am going—not to Berlin—but away from Europe, and I shall never return; but before I leave I shall go to the mill-stream to look at and listen to the waters for the last time. Good bye, Lance. In heaven you will know how much I have loved you, never on earth. In heaven you will know why I have left you. Be kind, and true, and good to all who are dear to you. Lance, if I die first, I shall wait inside the golden gates of heaven for you."
She did one thing more, which proved that her reason was still clear. She paid off all her servants, and to the most trusted one left power to give up her house in her name, as she was leaving it.
And far off the mill-wheel turned in the stream, and the water-lilies stirred faintly us the white foam passed them by.